


The Forgotten

by Brokenwords



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eerie, Fantasy elements, Halloween, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mysterious woods, Spooky, Temporary Character Death, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27386263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brokenwords/pseuds/Brokenwords
Summary: Bucky's story was old, or it felt that way. Wayward traveler, lost and trying to find a home, only to be thrown to the masses when the woods cried blood. He was the one they sacrificed, left scared and alone deep in the murky trees. No one expected him to live and, in some ways, he hadn't either.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	The Forgotten

It was damp and dark, tendrils of moss growing from between craggy stones as chilly fingers of fog curled around his ankles as he walked. There were ghosts here, he could feel them. Spirits of the dead come to warn him. Or perhaps welcome him. Brambles caught at the raggedy blanket wrapped loosely about his shoulders, one side snagging and slipping to brush his bare toes. Bucky paid none of it any heed. They could clutch and moan all they wanted but they could never harm him. In this world, where mist and mountain met magic, he was protected. Even if part of him hated that protection and the price he'd paid to receive it.

Another step. Shadows crept and danced around him but the forest was far from dark as he slipped through it. Silvery moonlight peered through branches and fire spit from pores in the ground. Poison gases spluttered and shone, beckoning him forward and lighting his way. As if he'd ever get lost, the sick compulsion to follow was ingrained into his very skin. Rolling his shoulders, feeling old marks stretch, phantom limbs twitch, he hauled up his blanket, taking comfort in the long knife he'd sewn into its folds. Tonight he'd try again and, even if he failed, at least his pride would have the comfort of knowing that he never went into this completely willing.

Bucky's story was old, or it felt that way. Wayward traveler, lost and trying to find a home, only to be thrown to the masses when the woods cried blood. He was the one they sacrificed, left scared and alone deep in the murky trees. No one expected him to live and, in some ways, he hadn't either. He wasn't the _same_ , he belonged to the creature of the forest now. But at least no one dared bother him anymore, they were too afraid of his black eyes and the perfectly lined scars he was covered in, the arm carved out of molten metal and stone. 

*

The air was always cleaner than he expected. Passing through the veil wasn't visual but it could be felt all the same. Between one step and the next the world changed. Imperceptible. Shivering despite the warmth, Bucky took a deep breath and let his eyes wander. It was a cave this time, smooth sandstone walls and a deep sparkling pool in the corner. Sconces lined the walls, carrying glowing balls that bathed the room in light and illuminated the pile of blankets in the center. There was a body lying tangled deep within them, gold burnished skin naked and smooth. Swallowing hard, Bucky approached, fingers smoothing over the hilt of his knife.

Steve. He was so beautiful and innocent looking while he slept. Long limbs corded with thick muscle that looked soft in the dim light. Steve always managed to make Bucky forget the power that shifted under his skin and wrapped around the core of his very bones. Pulling out his weapon, Bucky breathed in deep as he knelt. The air smelled like cloves and moss, spicy and earthy, soon it would smell like blood. Although whether that was his own or Steve's all depended on how steady Bucky's hand was. He took another shuddery breath and that was when he saw the twitch of a pinky.

Exhaling in a rush, Bucky let his hand fall to his thigh, still clutching his knife, just as sleepy eyes blinked open and lips pulled back into a soft smirk. "Planning on killing me Bucky?" The question was more amused than accusatory. It wasn't the first time this scene had taken place.

"Always," he whispered even as Steve's warm palm shifted to slide over his skin and wrap around the smooth metal of the blade.

The smell of copper did fill the air then, though the wound was intentional as Steve pulled the knife free, cutting the pads of his own fingers in the process. Bucky shuddered but he couldn't resist watching the way his hopes were tossed to the side and blood was wiped clean by a pass of a tongue, wounds healing just as fast as they appeared. Nor could he resist the touch of hands slowly pulling the fabric from his shoulders and smoothing, cool and damp, down his arms. 

Bucky didn’t say a word as lips traced his scars. If he opened his mouth he was afraid want would slip out instead of hatred. “Missed you,” Steve purred softly as Bucky’s eyes flickered shut.

_Lies_ , Bucky’s mind protested. He was always so sure it was a lie. Steve was cruel with his gentle coercion, his ability to force him to come here but inability to allow him to stay. He wasn’t the same, wasn’t like Steve, only infected by him. He didn’t belong in this world and because of Steve he didn’t belong anywhere else either. He was stuck in between, in the mist and shadows that threatened to choke him with a loneliness he’d never admit. And it _hurt_.

Twisting his head to the side, even as Steve placed a gentle nip to his jawline and left sticky imprints on his thighs, Bucky tried to squirm away, only to be caught back up.

“Stop fighting.” Steve, as always, was commanding.

Bucky sneered. “I thought that’s how you preferred your victims, unwilling and frightened.”

“Well you’re certainly not frightened,” Steve bit back. “And I never asked for you.”

“But you took me all the same.”

Steve had nothing to say to that and Bucky laughed coldly. He tried to back away again only to have fingers dig in deeper. A moment later Steve was kneeling up, cupping Bucky’s cheeks in his palms, breath warmth against his lips. “That was an accident and you know it.”

Bucky shook his head. Bitterness was filling him tonight, spilling out through all the cracks in his chest. He was an accident. This, all of it, mere misstep by someone else.

He could still remember the night it happened. The terror of being left in the woods with only a knife to defend himself. It was the same one he’d just attempted to use and as ineffective then as it was now. Bucky wasn't a coward but, if there was one thing he hated, it was the bruised pride that came with being helpless. He’d fought so hard in his life. He’d joined the army as a boy when it had been demanded of him, he fought and bled for a king who would never know his name. And when it was all over, when he was a broken wreck of a man missing an arm and looking for a quiet village to settle down in, he’d been taken by surprise by farmers and gatherers. Stripped naked and left deep between creaking oaks and stone. The masked faces of the men and women he’d started to think of as friends slipping away into shadow. 

Standing there that night, shivering in the damp mist and watching shadows separate and solidify into a beast of myth, he'd never felt more helpless, even as he screamed insults and swung wildly. The first slash across his spine however, had left him broken and face down in the dirt, cheeks smeared with tears and mud and still spitting wrath. Then the clouds had shifted, moonlight spilling as the thing came closer, full of sharp teeth and long claws, sleek muscles that shifted and rippled and eyes that could show regret.

Shock had filtered through the pain. Creatures like the one before him had haunted his nightmares for years. Half men, half something else. Beasts he couldn’t explain. But lying on the ground in that moment, back flaming and adrenaline making his limbs tremble, was the first time he’d ever seen one in the flesh and known it wasn’t a dream.

That knowledge was the most frightening thing. Nightmares weren’t supposed to be real.

The fact that it was his courage - spitting in the face of his monster and struggling under its claws - that saved him was terrifying and confusing. Steve insisted it was true though. He’d always pitied humans, their weakness and their stupidity for thinking that he was a god or a demon that could be sated with fresh flesh. He had no desire for meat so similar to his own. He never wanted sacrifices at all. He lived for the forest though, and he protected it. So he merely put the sacrifices to death, a kinder end than most would find lost in the woods. Then he dragged the bodies away and left them to the birds and wolves. 

Bucky however, Bucky _fought_. He fought and screamed and cursed even after poison from claws seeped through his skin and pain glazed his eyes. Some days Bucky wished Steve had let him die. Instead, he’d carried him from one reality into the next and treated his wounds, fashioned an arm from stone and steel and chased away his fear with fetish. And, somewhere along the way, he became a pet.

At least that’s what it felt like. Blinking his eyes open, he met Steve’s gaze, warm and fluid and searching and a sob caught in his throat. Barely managing to swallow it Bucky breathed out _”Please”_. It was the closest to begging he'd ever been.

"Please what?" Steve asked softly.

That was the trouble. Bucky didn't know. He didn't know if he wanted Steve to stop or keep going. He couldn't tell if he wanted strong, _comforting,_ arms to let him go or hold him tighter, or if he wanted Steve to just stop looking at him like that. He didn't know if he wanted to beg to be allowed to stay or plead that he be allowed to leave. He wanted it all and he wanted none of it and his bones ached at the contradictions. So he just repeated the word and when Steve kissed him he slumped into his hold.

"Don't," Steve's voice was firm in his ear.

"Don't what?" Bucky whispered.

Letting Bucky slide from his arms, deeper into the soft pile of cloth, Steve pressed his lips to a sharp cheekbone and ordered, "Don't give up."

Black eyes burned and Bucky turned away. "And what would you rather I do?” He sneered, bitter and oh so broken. 

Warm lips covered his words, smooth and demanding. "I want you to feel."

_'I do',_ Bucky wanted to snap back, but he was afraid that it would come out as a sob again. He felt everything and that was why he wanted to give up. He didn't say any of it though, he merely lifted his hands and buried them in Steve's hair, pulling him closer.

He could hear Steve's soft breath and feel the quiet rustle of limbs as he was rearranged. Part of Bucky would have been ashamed at one point in his life, being exposed was never a comfortable thing for him, especially now that his torso carried marks. Deep grooves spiderwebbed over his spine and curled lower, puckering skin and dragging the eye to its horrors. Here however, he wasn't allowed to hold onto shame. He'd been dragged over and under and exposed to everything until there was nothing left about his body to be embarrassed about. Steve had touched, licked, tasted every inch of him.

And so when finger slid, cool and demanding, up his thighs. Bucky allowed them to be parted and Steve to settle between. Steve’s skin was cool from the night air and it made Bucky shiver. Ideas of fighting slid away with persuasive touches and sharp canines nipping, drawing forth reactions. Dropping his hands from hair to shoulder, he dug his nails in and arched his hips.

He missed the look Steve gave him, the one that would have told him just how well the other understood his actions. He was trying to mar, to scar and scratch as he’d been. To mark Steve as his in the same way he’d been claimed. 

It wouldn’t work. Bucky knew it never would. He’d tried countless times before in this hazy world of pleasure soaked confusion and want. No matter how many times he was here, in one place or the next, it didn’t change. The scenery might, their conversations and the desperation might, but they always ended here - breath heavy and thighs aching, used once and then twice while his tongue burned with the desire to ask for more, always more. 

Tonight however, something felt different. At first Bucky foolishly thought it was his own determination to stay detached that was failing but, the longer it went on, the more he realized it wasn’t him at all. There was a singularity in Steve’s focus to make Bucky feel, both in his words and the way he moved deep inside him, a possessiveness that was magnified. And Steve, sleek Steve with his sharp teeth and sharper tongue, was oddly silent. His body was no less persuasive but his mouth had lost some of the teasing sting Bucky had grown to love. _Love_ , the word filled him with a sticky panic that clogged his lungs and made him gasp. 

*

He was crying. Bucky wanted to hide his tears, but they dripped through his fingers and fell hot against Steve's chest. “Why,” he whispered wetly. “Why do you always bring me back here? Why can’t you let me go?” It was almost dawn and his body ached with exhaustion. All he wanted to do was sleep but he knew that as soon as he curled up and shut his eyes, he would wake up alone.

Steve’s palm pressed against his cheek cool and warm all at once. “You are the one that can’t let go Buck, too afraid to feel, too scared of the unknown.” He gently stroked away tears and kissed his forehead. 

His words didn’t make sense and the oddity in them made Bucky blink. Steve was staring at him seriously, expression somber. Confused, Bucky shook his head. “You’re wrong.” 

“Am I?” quiet and calm and for once not insistent. “No one ever said you couldn’t stay Bucky. You are the one who can’t make up your mind.” 

“You leave-” Bucky hissed. “You are the one that leaves. You.”

Shaking his head, Steve rolled from his comfortable sprawl on the bed and leaned up to touch Bucky’s skin. It was cold to the touch. Sighing softly he dragged his fingers over a bare shoulder and down a ridged spine. When he pulled his fingers back they were covered in dirt and sticky blood. “Where do you go when you are not here Bucky? Back to the villagers who _sacrificed_ you? What do they do when they see you?”

Bucky swallowed. His head hurt and he didn’t understand. Why was Steve’s hand covered in blood? His heart was pounding in his chest and his throat was tight but he whispered, “They say nothing. They want nothing to do with me. They act like I don’t exist.”

“Because to them you don’t,” Steve broke the news gently. “To them, you are the man who wandered off in the middle of the night and got attacked by wild animals. To them, you are the stranger dying in the healers tent while the children stare between the fabric and whisper. To them, you are nothing more than the ghost who will be remembered as the silent one with black eyes and inability to make friends.” Steve paused for a moment, trying to let the impossible seep in. “They didn’t sacrifice you Bucky, you tried to sacrifice yourself.” 

“No,” Bucky rasped. “You are real. This is _real_.”

“No one said it wasn’t,” Steve interjected. 

“I don’t understand.”

“Call it afterlife or call it magic,” Steve shrugged. “But until you decide what world you want to belong in, you can’t stay in either.” 

Bucky’s head felt like it was full of thread too tangled to be unravelled. Instead there were blades cutting up the chains of sense and turning everything into short snippets that made no sense. He cleared his throat, fear clasping at it. “Are you...”

“Dead?” Steve’s eyebrow arched in amusement. “Death is a human word. All of you think it is some great inevitable thing that leads to nothing or to some version of hell or heaven. Few of you think of it as a path to something else. Only _you_ ever saw the rips in the veil from your world to ours, but no one ever believed you. Then one night you came looking. Holding your stupid knife and screaming for the creatures of your dream to show themselves.” 

Bucky’s chest bubbled a disbelieving laugh. “And just like that you came and decided what? That you should grant my wish? I’ve dreamed nightmares all my life and they’ve never proved themselves real. You said it was an accident.”

“It was. You should have died a real death like you humans are so afraid of. But instead you proved you belonged here more than there.” He pressed his blood covered hand to Bucky’s cheek. “I haven’t changed. What I am hasn’t changed. Just your knowledge of why you are here has. Why are you so afraid?”

Snorting, wet and scared, Bucky shook his head. Turning to Steve, he wanted to see that the words were lies but all he saw was sympathy. It terrified him. Another tear trickled down his face. How could he not be afraid? He’d always wanted to escape the life he lived in, to run away and not come back. But to die, to leave everything behind forever and never be able to go back, was something different entirely. “Why are you telling me this now?” he choked out.

“Because tonight is your last night to fight for life in the other world.” Steve answered quietly. “You’ve asked before why you couldn’t stay and now you know. The price to cross the veil is death of one body. Now the choice is yours.”

"I-" Bucky didn't want to make the choice. He never had. Truth came rushing at him in a drowning wave, blotting out the illusions. That night he'd had a nightmare, a dream of the villagers insisting he wasn't right in the head, that he be sent away. In the void of his mind they'd turned to monsters, monsters he'd stumbled out of bed to fight. Only he'd found a real monster in their place. A being that hurt him then healed him and left him aching to stay. A creature that gave him a place to belong and was killing him to do it. It was morbid and convoluted and yet as he sat there, blood trickling down his spine from wounds he'd thought healed, he found himself still wanting to stay. The life he'd lose didn't seem so trivial in light of the one he'd gain. “If this is a lie I’ll haunt you,” he muttered pathetically. 

Digging his fingers into Steve’s side he felt a comforting hand seep into his hair and scratch his scalp. Blinking slowly he searched Steve’s face for some sign this was the wrong decision. Reflected back was only a calm assurance in pale eyes. 

He didn’t know how to die, he’d never experienced it before. But as he lay there, Bucky wondered how difficult it could really be. Breathing in once, he gave a watery smile and exhaled. 

*

The room was sweltering, smoke and steam filling the air as prayers were offered to gods and a healer watched quietly. The man was dying, festering wounds creeping across his skin and clawing him into darkness. Nothing the healer did could save him, not any herbs or concocted poultices. 

Reaching forward, she wiped sweat sticky hair off a damp forehead and brushed pained tears off a pale cheek. He wept even in his sleep. No one saw him leave that night, trail out of bed with only the knife in his hand. No one noticed him gone until the next day when a hunter found his body slashed and fevered on the rocks in the woods, blade clutched in his fingers and breathing shallow. 

He’d always been a strange man, prone to wild dreams that left him screaming in the night. He had seen things in his life, things that frightened them all, and he had been shunned for it. Now the healer wished someone had listened as she watched the man’s eyes flickered open, bright and fevered, then closed one last time.

The room was deathly quiet and it took a moment for her to realize the silence was the lack of a rattling breath. She pressed a palm to his neck, searching for a pulse and finding none. She said a prayer for his soul, taking in a sharp lined face and worried lips that rarely smiled. They were smiling now though and at the sight she nodded to herself. Stood. And went to call the men in to burn the body. Her job was done.

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this for Halloween but its a bit late!!! It's also rather odd. But I hope it was enjoyable anyway?!
> 
> [@brokenintowords](https://twitter.com/brokenintowords) on twitter


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